


Of Roses & Asphodels

by Wandrian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-07 16:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13438653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wandrian/pseuds/Wandrian
Summary: It would take Anne Steward years of living at Grimmauld Place to understand that Walburga Black had saved her life from Lord Voldemort, a discovery uprooted alongside her youngest son. Years later she'd understand why she had been saved, a revelation unearthed with Walburga's eldest, who had sacrificed all to be who he was, not what he was. If only that had mattered in the end.





	1. In Which It Begins

 

_"It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be."_  
-Albus Dumbledore

Once, long ago, there had been a time when I did not know who Walburga Black was. I knew the name like I knew the names chronicled onto the flyleaf of my mother's journal, stained in ink and swirled in her beautiful calligraphy—"Your forefathers and foremothers, sweet," she said when I asked her of the long column of names. "Many will tell you that greatness runs through your veins, pure and strong, but remember that true greatness is not found within, it is earned. Heed this, love, an entire garden can be outshone by the merest rose,"—I knew the name Walburga Black, but I did not know who she was.

How quickly that changed.

I remember very little of the life I had been born into. Growing up in Grimmauld Place, there were moments when my mother's voice echoed into my thoughts, triggered by the smallest stimulus: a silk shawl, the faint and heady scent of a leather-bound book, the mother-of-pearl dryad etching on the backside of Narcissa's hand-mirror. My father was never far from these vestiges either, because I saw glimpses of his warm eyes in the brushstrokes of the painting outside Sirius's bedroom, and sometimes the statuette in the garden, nearly besieged and overgrown by ivy, bore the same curvature of his face if I stared long enough.

More than anything, I remember the night I had first met Walburga Black. There were, however, fragments of my parent's speaking her name long before that; once, when my mother added Walburga as a guest to a dinner party, and another, far more vague, when I thought I had seen my father speaking to a imperious-looking woman's head in his study's fireplace.

That night from long ago, when I was little over six years old, when I had first truly met Walburga in the flesh, I had been more than terrified, but harrowed. Outside, a blizzard was raging and I remember the snow descending from my bedroom's fireplace, the stone masonry steadily becoming blanketed with white, and wondering when my father was coming to wave his wand and rekindle the firewood, warming the floor, warming me—why my mother hadn't come to kiss me goodnight.

Inside, down below, something much more horrible than my childish impatience was occurring.

I remember the darkness first, the shroud that immediately eclipsed the beam of moonlight outside my window and snuffed each crystallized breath I took. The blackness had settled far too quickly, permeating every inch of my bedroom, but even more abrupt was the ear-splitting  _crackle_  that erupted through the floorboards from below. It lasted for all of a moment, the width of time between a heartbeat, but it had jarred straight into my bones, making me breathless and wide-eyed with terror.

The silence that followed lasted an eternity.

Then, there were voices. Loud, vicious snarls and shouts sounded from below my bedroom, so close, too close, but the voice sounded almost serpentine to my frightened child's ears; immediately I had imagined the basilisk pictured in one of my mother's books, coiling and springing its taut scales up the stairs for me, hissing louder and louder and  _louder_  until–

The door opened. The voice had stopped, and I had felt as though a specter had paralyzed me into its hold. A woman, tall and very statuesque, came rushing inside, her carmine robes billowing out from behind. Her eyes were hard and glinting like a moonbeam catching a rip in the sea. Before I could move or gasp or cry out, her arms were around me and constricting my spine to her chest and chaffing the frilly lace of my nightgown against my skin when I tried to squirm away.

She immediately clasped a hand to my mouth, the other clutching with white, bloodless knuckles.

"Do not speak, little girl, in the case the he hears you and changes his mind," she said, breathing sharply. "As is your right, you will be watched from here on out.  _No questions_."

No questions.

I quickly learned that she was not referring to my strange right to be watched, but that I did not have the right to question the strange happenings from that night. No questions, no right; it was a hard lesson to be taught. Yet from the moment she Apparated my terrified six-year-old body from my family's moorland manor to a London townhouse, one that was smaller but far less welcoming, to when I was introduced to two curious, stormy-eyed boys, to the expanse of time I essentially became a part of the Black family, and, eventually, a Slytherin—I chronicled my own list of questions, all imprinted into the flyleaf of my mind, not unlike my mother's journal.

There were so many questions, and,  _oh_ , how I wanted to ask, wanted them answered.

How, more than anything, I wanted my parents.

But I remembered. I remembered every unasked question, every unanswered question. I remembered everything of the night that my parent's were inexplicably killed. I remembered everything of the night that Walburga Black had saved my life.

It took me another six years to understand that it was Walburga Black who had saved my life from Lord Voldemort—a discovery that wouldn't have been uprooted if not for Walburga's youngest son, who was self-possessed and intelligent and inscrutable, who only showed his true feelings to those who had earned his trust, and more to the rare few he loved.

It would take me another four years to understand why she had saved me, and if only I had known that such a consequential revelation would be unearthed with Walburg's eldest son—the outcast, the Gryffindor, who was undauntable and passionate and headstrong, who would have made a great Slytherin with his trickster ways, a proud Death Eater with his resoluteness, who knew more right from wrong because he had sacrificed everything to be  _who_  he was rather than  _what_  he was.

If only that had mattered in the end.

 


	2. In Which There Is A Witch

These were Orion Black's very first words upon seeing me: "If we're going to be picking Muggle strays from off the streets, Walburga, at least choose one with the common decency to possess  _shoes_. This will send Kreacher into a fit."

He said this whilst peering down his nose at me, a severely arched eyebrow hiking up towards his widow's peak. My first impression of him was a sense of kinship, however, because we had Apparated into a study that was nearly identical to my mother's, replete with gilded books and a fireplace that bore the same sculpted mantel that depicted the tale of the Three Brothers, each moving in sequence to their ventures with the flickering of fire below, Death watching in stony relief above. It did not strike me as odd or significant that Orion and my mother shared the same fireplace then, too young and cold and shaken to notice. No, this familiarity was a lifeline, an illusion that made the fact that I would never see my parents again seem a little less real.

Orion had a thick tome splayed across his lap in the same reverential way my father sat amongst his own books, ringed fingers light on the binding, entire body curved towards the pages. His grey eyes were locked onto me. Whereas Walburga was statuesque, Orion was stately, with his solemn expression and dark hair falling past the high collar of his robes without a strand awry.

Walburga was pressed behind me, tapered fingernails digging into the lace of my nightgown. She bristled, "This is the daughter of Heathcliff and Eve Steward. Show some respect."

Orion carefully closed his book. "He permitted her survival. Is that wise?"

Whatever look Walburga shot him caused his other brow to rise before turning back to his reading. A moment later the hands atop my shoulders had me spinning on the carpet as Walburga swooped down, her nose a mere inch from mine. Her nostrils were wide and flared, reminding me of a wildcat I'd seen in one of my picture books, and her crimson-stained lips were disappearing into a thin line as she regarded me.

"Listen to me, Anne of the House of Steward, and listen very,  _very_ hard," she spoke, her words as much iron as her clutch, except I could feel the faint tremor after every emphasis. "Your father is gone, your mother is gone. Take heed, child, that if you prove to be a hindrance in this household you will find yourself very alone and  _very_  afraid. But if, perchance, you do exactly as you are told, you will honor your parent's bloodline far more than you will ever realize. Do you remember what I said before?"

I nodded tremulously.

"Say it."

"N-no questions."

Her clutch tightened before letting go. "Good," she said, rising and turning to Orion. "Watch Anne, husband, we'll be off as soon as I sort out clothing for her. She can't been seen about in nightclothes, even at this hour."

"Are you to obtain another waif?" Orion sighed, though he looked amused. "We now have three children under this roof, which means we are officially outnumbered. Or is it to become the Black family tradition to take in every child orphaned by Lor–"

"Do not say his name!" Walburga's eyes flashed pointedly to me. "This girl is no mere urchin.  _He_  understood that she is the last of her kind," she paused, slowly turning to look at her husband, an action that turned her grey irises utterly black in the firelight, "One day, so will she."

And she disappeared with a  _pop_. The only sound in the study was the hiss and spitting within the fireplace, the vanilla-laced scent of aged books making me feel like this was all a dream. When I looked towards Orion Black, I saw that he was steadily watching me, sharp eyes narrowing in thought. I froze under the heaviness of his scrutiny. We stayed like that for thirteen heartbeats, logs crumbling in the hearth, before Orion closed his book again and set it atop a nearby table.

He steepled his fingertips. "Why aren't you crying?" he asked.

Rather than meeting his gaze, I focused on the ring on his right forefinger, which was a band of thick silver shaped into a serpent. Green eyes glimmered in the light, but it was the snake's fangs, hugging each side of the fingernail, that dazzled me.

"I'm not..." My voice came out a squeak. "I'm not afraid."

"Your parents are dead," Orion said impassively. "You realize this, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you sad?"

Something undefinable lodged itself in my throat. My eyes fell from the ring and I toed the edge of a gold-colored rose stitched onto the carpet, barely managing to swallow.

"Yes."

"It's 'yes,  _sir_ '. Didn't your parents teach you how to address your elders? Impudence. Sirius will be overjoyed," Orion muttered dryly, sighing. He pressed the tips of his steepled fingers to his chin, rings glimmering. "Do you know  _why_  your parents are dead?"

My heart nearly ruptured with the want to know. The fathomless _need_  to know of why my parents were killed would come years later, but I was a child and I knew I was being tested.

"No," I said quietly. "No...questions, sir."

Orion nodded in approval. I noticed then that his hair was not the raven black like his wife's, but the darkest shade of auburn, only appearing like copper in the reflection of light.

"Sharp girl. Tell me, why aren't you afraid?"

"Mum always said that I can choose to be whatever I want," I responded. My chin had been dipped to my chest because I felt like I was being chastised, but very slowly I raised my head, feeling emboldened from my mother's words, and met Orion Black's flinty eyes. "I don't want to be afraid. I choose to be brave."

Fire popped within a log. Within my periphery I saw the orange-blaze of embers flutter into the air. Orion remained unmoving. I willed myself not to blink.

Finally, he snorted. "I don't know whether that's utterly commendable, little Anne Steward, or utter bollocks. Here," he then dug into the breast-pocket of his robe, breaking the last vestiges of tension and producing what looked like a white coffee bean. "Bertie Botts. Don't tell Regulus that I nicked these from him. My dear wife only allows sugar on special occasions, so my sons and I have an unspoken agreement to hide these from her. Take it."

I eyed the jellybean on his proffered palm. It could have been a pearl to match all his rings, which instantaneously reminded me of the single string of pearls that my mother perpetually used to wear.

I would never see either again.

I took a step back. "N-no."

" _Sir_. Now take it," Orion said firmly. "Now."

I did, careful not to touch him. The jellybean looked so much larger in my little hand, warm from being kept within his pocket. Orion withdrew his own jellybean and promptly popped it into his mouth. Carefully, I did the same.

The flavor felt like it was biting through my tongue, sharp and overwhelming and acrid, almost bringing tears to my eyes in the most delightful way. I fought the smile threatening to corner my lips, watching as Orion swallowed and coughed with supreme dignity into his fist.

"Dog food," he said, voice slightly off-key. "Yours?"

"Onion."

He raised a brow. "And you...  _like_  that?"

"Yes, sir."

There was a bout of silence.

"You're a strange child, aren't you?"

Walburga appeared just then at the very same spot she had Disapparated from, carrying a small bundle of clothes and a harried expression. She pivoted dramatically towards her husband, the ends of robe fluttering across my legs.

"I found _this_  in your eldest son's bedroom, Orion," she said, tossing a small white and red striped box at her husband's chest. He caught it and peered at the label, stiffening. "Did you take them to Honeyduke's again?"

Orion caught my eye, turning the label-side ever so slightly towards me. Words wrought in ribbon read:  **Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans**. He emphatically cleared his throat while I suppressed something reminiscent of a giggle, because it felt both foolhardy to laugh in Walburg's presence and traitorous to smile on the last day of my parent's life.

"You know how resourceful Sirius has become. How could he not? We keep reiterating to them both how they can achieve anything if they set their minds to it."

"Not in terms of," Walburga grimaced, " _sugar_."

"Besides," Orion continued, setting down the box of jellybeans atop his book. "Kreacher has become rather loyal to Regulus. It would not be beyond him to obtain a few boxes of these at our son's request."

Walburga deflated just a little. "This has backfired terribly."

"Yes," Orion patted her hand affectionately. "We're terrible parents, aren't we?"

Something within his words, or the words themselves, must have sent a jolt throughout Walburga, because she abruptly transformed into the tall, forbidding woman who had swept me from my home not an hour prior. She straightened—imperious and aristocratic, a woman who had set out to conquer and was not yet finished—and whirled towards me.

"Put these on," she said, handing me the bundle of clothes. "Be quick. We have one final feat to accomplish before night's end."

I slid my feet into a pair of loafers that were too large, the laces immediately tying themselves. I jerked back, then realized Walburga had her wand pointed at me, moving it expertly with abrupt flourishes. Soon I was adorned in a sage-green robe with brass buttons atop my nightgown and a cloak lined with fur atop of that.

Walburga's gaze became nearly pensive with her wandwork, almost wistful, as they lingered on my face.

"You have your father's eyes," she said quietly. But then she blinked, gaze returning to their hallmark steeliness. "Too big for your head, but I suppose you will grow into them. Perhaps we'll trim those lashes. Your bone structure is your mother's, at least."

I ran my fingers along the cloak. It was velvet, the trim ermine. My heart was hammering against my ribcage, becoming more and more hurt. Had my father's and my mother's heart hammered like this before they died, full of sorrow and longing?

I almost asked.

Instead, voice trembling, I asked, "What feat must we accomplish before night's end?"

Walburga's eyes sharpened.

"Something far more significant than your parent's death, Anne Steward," she said solemnly. "What did I tell you before?"

"No questions."

She grabbed my arm, fingers tight. " _No questions_."

— — —

_Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC_

Diagon Alley was deserted at witching hour, the cobbled street sheathed entirely by snow. It glistened in the lamplight, undisturbed by footfall, so beautiful and serene that it pained me to look away. But Walburga Black was not a patient woman and she had given me the time it took for her to unlocked the shop's door with her wand before pulling me hurriedly inside.

A bell rang sleepily within the shop. It was a small building, narrow, dark enough to make one feel like they took up too much room inside. Lanterns hung low on the walls, flickering to the same silent tune as the dust motes in the air. The shop possessed the same hallowed aura as my mother's study, all silence and enchantment, but whereas hers was a sanctum of written words and aged parchment, the shop was brimful of long, thin boxes. Multitudes were stacked from floor to ceiling, no box quite the same, some brown and sharp-cornered, others drooping from time.

I took a step forward, peering down a corridor of boxes, unable to see their end. The floor beneath creaked.

"It smells like a forest," I whispered. "Like trees."

Walburga pulled me back. "Silence," she breathed.

An older man had materialized from behind a column of boxes almost soundlessly. He held a wand aloft in one hand, expression vaguely confused until clearing into one of recognition. Fluffy white hair hung in his eyes, slightly disheveled, which made me wonder if we'd just awoken him.

He waved his wand. The lanterns flickered a little more brightly.

"Walburga," he said in a voice both wispy and gruff.

"Mrs. Black," she corrected.

He peered unblinking at her, eyes like large, silvery spheres, like the point of a wand used as light. Walburga peered straight back. I shifted uncomfortably, feeling as though the magical atmosphere of the shop was ebbing away in wake of whatever unspoken, and unpleasant, conversation they briefly shared.

"I'm afraid it's quite late," the man began, gesturing to the door. "The shop's been closed for hours–"

"I believe you are in my debt, Garrick," Walburga interjected. "And to think I haven't whispered a word of payment for years."

The old man, Garrick, still did not blink. "Until now," he said.

Walburga smiled blithely—a strange sight, because she was abruptly very beautiful—and nodded, once.

Garrick peered down at her hand, where she clutched her wand. He hummed.

"Nine and one quarter inches, made of red oak," he said. "Dragon heartstring and quite rigid. I'm pleased to see you've taken well care of it, at least."

Then his eyes fell onto me. His expression did not falter, did not change, but he took one step forward. His pale eyes remained unblinking, but he stared, hard, intense, until he hummed once again.

"And that's..."

" _Yes_."

His eyes shifted to hers. "I had not heard the news. It must have been recent... quite recent. Terrible, tragic. I'm sure she will not be the only orphan." His eyes flashed. "And you are to be her mother?"

"I'm to assure of her survival," Walburga stated loftily, a smile cornering her lips. I was discovering a smile was a warning sign, meaning eminent danger, like the striping on a venomous snake. "To be her mother she would have to marry one of my sons."

Garrick remained silent for several long seconds. His eyes shifted slowly from Walburga to me. I did not fear him anymore than I feared Orion, but the heaviness and uneasiness of his gaze was almost tangible. Finally, he peered away, holding his wand aloft for both of us to see.

"Do you know what I love most about wandmaking, Mrs. Black?" he asked, tilting his head towards his wand. He spoke carefully. "It is that after all the deliberation, selecting what core to which wood, the melding, the nurturing, the magic, is that I've created something with the ability to  _choose_. Is it not a great thing—a great thing, indeed—to choose what we want to become?"

Walburga scoffed. "And you, a wandmaker?"

Garrick set his wand onto a nearby box with a loud  _thud_.

"She is too young to possess a wand," he declared.

"Then it is fortunate that we're not here for that, Ollivander. I wanted her tested."

"Tested?"

"Or 'fitted', if you'd rather."

Garrick Ollivander looked once more at me, pale eyes searching. His expression never changed, he still had yet to blink, but something about him became very serious the more he searched. I shifted under his gaze.

"Very well," he said gruffly.

Walburga straightened in victory, peering down at me with a pleased expression on her face. She even squeezed my shoulder as Garrick Ollivander began to search around his shop, pulling out boxes and setting them onto a nearby counter. He disappeared once entirely into another room and returned with several more boxes in his arms.

He snapped his fingers twice and out of his pocket flew a tape measure. Under Walburga's watchful eye the tape measure began ticking off my arm length, finger length, and shoulder width. I followed its unspoken instructions until the old man snapped his fingers once more and the tape measure returned to his pocket. Dust had mushroomed up into the air with the wandmaker's flurry of action, and when it settled he had whittled out nearly two dozen boxes he had pulled out of inventory.

Eight boxes lay before him. Walburga strode to the counter, eyes locked with the old man. I followed, knowing better than let the deluge of questions burst forth.

Excitement trickled within me.

"I know the answer you seek, Walburga Black," Mr. Ollivander said. "Will you be ready if you don't receive the one you're looking for?"

"I don't require your opinion on the matter, Ollivander."

With that, the old man opened the first box on the right without ceremony. His wizened fingers took great care in retrieving a long, sturdy wand from within, however. The wand glimmered, highly polished in the lantern light, a work of art that the wandmaker clearly took great pride in by the pious way he handed it to me.

"Fir, thirteen inches, unicorn hair. Very springy. Go ahead."

I took a deep breath, not knowing entirely why I felt so suddenly apprehensive, and curled my fingers around the base. It was lighter than I'd imagined, and colder. It felt too large and cumbersome for my small hands.

"Well?" Walburga asked pointedly to Mr. Ollivander.

"Swish it around, Anne Steward," he said to me.

I faltered for a moment, wondering how he knew my name, before I did as he told.

Nothing happened.

Mr. Ollivander plucked it out of my grasp, humming, as he returned the wand to its box, which joined the rest of the castaways. The next wand was much shorter, the shaft twisted until it had a gnarled head that immediately reminded me of a Goblin.

"Hornbeam, eight inches. Dragon heartstring and somewhat yielding. I remember this one well. Try it out."

This wand was much, much heavier. Once more, I swished it in the air, teeming with hope and excitement that something magical would occur.

Nothing.

Walburga's face was darkening, eyes tapering as Mr. Ollivander readied the next wand, the previous joining the now growing pile.

"Three is a lucky number," he said, handing me the next. "Sycamore, ten and a quarter inches. Unicorn hair. Very swishy. Go ahead!"

No matter how many swishes, this wand was also dead in my hands. Panic was beginning to rise in my chest. I peered wide-eyed at Walburga, desperate for any sort of comfort or approval or acknowledgement. She refused to look at me, but followed Mr. Ollivander's every move with utterly rapt attention, nostrils flared.

Nothing occurred with the fourth wand.

Nor the fifth.

Nor sixth.

"Aha!" Mr. Ollivander exclaimed with the seventh wand, then: "—oh. No, no. That one won't do. We won't even bother."

By this point Walburga stood so impeccably straight that it looked painful, her jaw locked and ticking. Her hands here in white, bloodless knuckles clutched around her own wand, eyes nearly delirious, as if willing each passing wand to awaken in my hands.

Slowly, very slowly, Mr. Ollivander opened up the eighth, final box. He inhaled deeply, pausing, before taking off the cover. From inside he retrieved the simplest of the wands. It was not quite as polished as the rest, the color of very milky tea, but bore faint etching of vines along the shaft. This wand had its own hand-grip, much like that of a sword's pommel, which too had been darkened by engravings similar to knotwork.

"Alder, eleven inches. The only phoenix feather of the bunch," he said solemnly. He eyed me for a mere moment, but it was the longest to endure. "Very adaptable."

My fingers shook as a I reached for the wand. Walburga visibly hitched her breath as my fingertips skimmed the edge of the hand-grip. Mr. Ollivander stood wide-eyed, nearly gaping in wait.

The instant my hand curled around the wand I felt the truest definition of warmth. It was bright and enriching and all-encompassing. It felt like sunlight. It felt like growth and renewal. It felt like the vines were coming alive from deep, deep inside of my chest and coiling onto the wand, joining us as one.

"That's the ticket!" Mr. Ollivander crowed. "Look at her! Look at her  _go_. Excelsior!"

Mr. Ollivander and Walburga both managed to cover their eyes as an abrupt golden light shot forth from the tip of the wand, filling the entirety of the shop for several seconds before puttering out; I had watched it all, too enraptured by the light to shield my eyes. Another burst was gearing up before Mr. Ollivander whisked it out of my grasp, tucking it dutifully back into its home. He plucked a quill from a nearby ink pot and wrote in big, wobbly letters ' **ANNE S.'**  onto the end of the box.

"It won't be long now before the two of you are reunited," he said in an odd tone, peering at me. "I had a strange feeling about that wand, Anne Steward. That was the second wand I've ever constructed, long ago in my youth. I've constructed thousands, hundreds of thousands since, but I've always wondered who it would choose. Always wondered, indeed."

He nodded, once, to Walburga, before disappearing into the back of his shop.

Walburga strode forward until she was a foot in front of me, and bent down until we were nearly nose to nose with each other. I knew she was not a woman to openly show happiness, to beam with affection, but there was a vividly strong sense of satisfaction that rolled off of her.

Slowly, she reached forward and grasped one of my hands—my wand hand, entirely engulfing it with her own.

"Do you know what you are, Anne of the House of Steward?"

I didn't dare ask. Despite my own happiness that a wand had chosen me, ' _No questions'_ still rung in my ears. Despite my own happiness that a wand had chosen me, my parents were still dead.

Walburga squeezed my hand.

"You are pureblooded, with greatness running through your veins. But more than that," Walburga Black smiled with frightening triumph. " _You are a witch_."

smiled with frightening triumph. "You  _are_ a witch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge, heartfelt thank you to whose who have commented/kudoed the first chapter.


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